


Why John Shouldn't Watch Harry Potter

by ammiller



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrealized affection; Saucy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ammiller/pseuds/ammiller
Summary: A light one-shot hinting at unrealized feelings between Sherlock and John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Why John Shouldn't Watch Harry Potter

“Mr. Potter, why are you really here?”

The visitor blinked, clearly taken aback. “How do you--?”

“You’re hardly just a passerby on the street. You’ve been in the papers.” The detective shifted his long legs to a more comfortable position. “Now, let’s have the truth Mr. Potter. Or should I call you Harry?”

Harry Potter swallowed, suddenly nervous. He hadn’t expected to be recognized. Wasn’t this man a muggle after all? Upon his knocking at 221B Baker Street, he had been kindly waived upstairs by a grandmotherly woman who had barely noticed he was there. However the moment he had stepped into the doorway of the small flat, the tall man with black hair had regarded him with some degree of knowledge the other muggles on the street didn’t possess. “But how could you possibly know?”

“One needs no more than to study all of the information about you to know what to look for. The tell-tale black hair, the green eyes of your mother though they’re truly not that green at all, more of a hazel, and the infamous scar that is branded onto you. However let’s not fret over the details, but instead cut to the chase. I ask again, why are you really here Mr. Potter?”

Harry found himself standing, his heart pounding as he moved his robe slightly to the side of his leg, revealing the riding crop fixed there by leather garter belt. “Well you see Mr. Holmes, I’ve been a bad wizard.”

The dark haired man stared pointedly at the tented robes beside the riding crop. “Have you any more… _weapons_ Mr. Potter?”

“The sword of Gryffindor sir.”

The side of the detective’s mouth quirked. “Best take it out where I can see it Mr. Potter.”

Harry undid the clasp on his robe. The next few minutes were all a blur. One minute the detective had been in the chair across from him, and the next thing Harry knew, his sword was sheathed to the hilt in the mouth of a dark haired detective.

“Oh great goblins… Sherlock!”

**CRASH.**

John Watson bolted upright in bed. _Oh. Gods._ A yelp and the sound of further crashes just below him were enough to make John cringe. He had done it again. Unable to stifle a groan John let himself fall miserably back down to the mattress. He would owe Sherlock for his whole bloody chemistry set before this was over.

For the past three nights there had been the Harry Potter movies showing on the telly. It had always been John’s weakness and he had stayed up late watching them as Sherlock worked heatedly on his experiments. John hadn’t bothered to ask what the experiments were this time. Sherlock was always trying to learn something new. As long as the man didn’t use his chair, cup, or kettle in the matter John didn’t much care. Or his wool jumper for that matter, but John didn’t really feel as though that was in harm’s way. Sherlock turned up his nose whenever John wore the thing, but he never made a comment about it, which was surprising for Sherlock. He didn’t much care whether or not John was offended by the things he said.

However if the next few nights continued in the same manner as the past three, John wasn’t sure that any of his belongings would be safe from Sherlock’s wrath.

Unbidden the recent dream’s escapades floated into his mind. This time he had been Harry Potter himself, standing before… _him_. The image sharpened, and he could see in front of him the tall dark-haired detective with the long legs. Those familiar legs bending down before him in one fast motion before he felt Sherlock’s dark curls brush his skin. A moment later and the detective’s lips closed around John’s— _No._ No, no, this was not what he wanted to be thinking about.

John swallowed, uncomfortable at the path his dreams were taking. Forcing the thought away, he tried to ignore his treacherous anatomy as it pressed against the confines of his pants, begging for attention. Instead of polishing himself off, John closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to his work at the hospital.

The work wasn’t demanding, but it was regular and it helped to pay the bills when Sherlock couldn’t find a case to interest him. Not to mention it kept himself occupied, thought John dryly. He wasn’t sure he could stand a bored Sherlock Holmes genius extraordinaire all day every day. If he had to—Well, John might find a better use for his gun than shooting at walls to disturb Mrs. Hudson. _Not that Sherlock would care either way._

The grumbling made John feel a little better, and by the time his thoughts had run their natural course, lighting on the numerous faux pas Sherlock had committed throughout the day and how the man always seemed to take John for granted, he found himself to be thoroughly annoyed with Sherlock and far from interested in anything but a good night’s sleep.

Turning over onto his side, John switched off the forgotten lamp from earlier in the evening. He could feel the heat from the bulb in the switch and resolved he would replace it soon. No sense in dying in a fire because he fell asleep too fast. Maybe Sherlock would be glad to see him gone John thought irritably, but he wouldn’t keep him from sleep. He needed sleep…

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock glared at the broken pieces of his beaker, not five minutes prior intact and in his grasp. Three nights. The same experiment, and the same interruption. If the man was going to be having his war flashbacks he might at least yell out someone else’s name in the middle of them.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Sherlock Holmes felt guilt pierce his icy exterior at his own callousness. He had heard the soldier on the nights when he had flashbacks, could tell the next morning in the less than careful way John would make his tea. More than once he’d seen more than just tea go into the cup, but the cheerful almost painful act that would come after that cup of tea always warded off any commenting by Sherlock. What business was it of his to dredge up what the wounds of the night already did?

The detective frowned. This wasn’t right. Something about his snap deduction didn’t fit. John shouted in his sleep all the time but this… What was it? The nightmares.. John’s war nightmares were far more—vivid. That was it! The dreams were always loud and anguished, harsh, whereas this time had sounded different. There was no noise of John thrashing about, no incoherent shouts or pleas for friends long gone. This hadn’t been a flashback. Nor, if he truly thought about it, were the other nights for that matter. A muffled noise or two was all Sherlock had noted and discarded before minutes later his name was ringing out from the lips of his flatmate. If it wasn’t the war, what was John dreaming about?

Absently Sherlock turned to the pile of laundry that sat beside John’s chair and rooted around until he found a Christmas jumper that was particularly ugly. Dragging it from the pile he put the thick fabric adorned with little Santa Clauses face-first into the liquid surrounding his broken beaker. If there was any justice in the world the rosy cheeks would catch fire and the whole blasted thing would turn to ash. As it was, the liquid was only stain-inducing. In the morning there would be a faint discoloration around the head of one unfortunate Santa, but no more than that. There had been too many annoying conversations started with the phrases “Sherlock, what did you do to my—“, or “How many times have I told you not touch—“, as of late and he wasn’t interested in another one. Yes this would cause a stir, but John would feel just guilty enough about the effect he was having on Sherlock’s beakers that the detective calculated no more than a 10% probability that there would be a heated row.

Returning to the laundered clothes, Sherlock found at the bottom of the pile the wool jumper John always wore. It was distasteful and didn’t look good on John in the slightest, but… Sherlock extracted the brown material from the pile and considered it before slowly raising the item of clothing to his face. He felt the texture of the cloth and breathed in, holding what he found there inside of him for a moment.

The scent was purely John: spicy musk from his aftershave; the slight hint of mint from John’s toothpaste in the morning; and the scratchy warmth that rested inside the wool of the jumper. Sherlock found it almost soothing. He imagined this was because it was a concentration of the scents he had become accustomed to around the flat now. Slowly he released the air like the smoke from a cigarette, savoring the last plays of scent as they fled his body with carbon dioxide.

Eyeing the contraband, Sherlock considered his options. Tossing the jumper back onto the pile of clothes without folding it would note his interest in the item. That was out of the question. He couldn’t really say why he didn’t want John to know he had been handling it, but something inside him decided it didn’t want to answer the questions John might bring up because of his interest in it.

He could try to re-fold the jumper and pray John didn’t notice the less than perfect folds, or he could dismantle the whole pile of laundry. He chose the latter. Recreating John’s military neatness was near impossible for the detective, no matter how much he hated to admit it. The great detective could fold over 100 different napkin patterns, but cleanly creasing and folding a shirt was beyond him. He had tried once before with one of John’s shirts to disastrous results. The outcome being that John had heatedly lectured Sherlock about the concept of privacy and not using his personal belongings in experiments—again.

From upstairs the sound of John’s light snores floated downward. Whatever had awoken John again had passed for the evening. Sherlock examined his destroyed experiment and the ugly Christmas jumper gracing the kitchen table. He would leave it all there, as a message to John. If the good doctor was going to be screaming a certain consulting detective’s name in his sleep, he had better be willing to pay the price with his jumpers.

**Author's Note:**

> A one-shot written a few years ago at the height of my BBC Sherlock obsession. I enjoy other peoples' work and decided I could share my own dabbles too.


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